Twelve days of white road, and the world tilted southward.
Pines grew shorter, snow thinner, until at last the imperial watch-towers rose like friendly ghosts on the horizon.
Lan Yue rode at the head of the grain carts, swan seal hanging outside her cloak so the gate archers would know the hostage came home alive.
But alive was a relative word.
She had left Ice-Lock with a treaty in her sleeve and a splinter of jade under her breast-bone—sharp, private, impossible to show.
Each night she woke feeling the Moon-Bridge pitch beneath her, hearing the dragon token shatter into river-dark.
Still, the column moved: hooves, wheels, hearts—toward a capital that would celebrate the grain and forget the price.
Outer Barracks — first sight of the city
Trumpets sounded. Golden banners snapped.
Zhao Yuan rode out at the head of a ceremonial troop, grin bright as frost.
"Look! The swan drags winter behind her—and sacks of northern bread to boot."
Behind him, Zhao Shen sat astride the black charger.
He wore no crown, only the plain grey cloak she remembered from drill yards.
His eyes found her across the distance and stopped—searching for something she feared had been left beneath falling ice.
She dismounted, knee twinging from the half-healed cut, and knelt.
"Your Highness, the King's treaty, sealed and delivered."
She held up the scroll.
He took it, but his gaze never left her face.
"Rise," he said quietly. "The realm thanks you. I—" His voice cracked; he cleared it. "We will speak in private."
Palace — Sandalwood Hall, closed council
Empress Dowager broke the wax, read the clauses aloud:
Grain for two seasons, border hostages exchanged, trade route reopened, northern bride-claim suspended until "a moon of mutual consent"—clever phrasing that meant never if the south willed otherwise.
When she finished, silence pooled.
Then cheers erupted—ministers clapped, scribes wept with relief.
Only Zhao Shen stood apart, scroll still in hand, knuckles white.
The Dowager dismissed the court with a gesture.
"Leave the hero to her rest. Celebration tonight. Tomorrow we count grain."
Doors closed.
Yue found herself alone with the princes and their mother.
The Question Unasked
Zhao Yuan spoke first, tone light, eyes not.
"Rumour claims you walked a bridge of glass and traded a heart for grain. Care to refine the rumour?"
She met his gaze. "The bridge was ice, not glass. The realm still beats. That is enough."
Zhao Shen stepped forward.
"The token I gave you—" Voice low, careful. "It is gone?"
She swallowed. "The bridge demanded a weight. I placed what I feared to lose. The stone swallowed it."
His face paled, but he nodded—accepting, not forgiving.
"I would have paid it myself had I been there."
"You were needed here," she answered. "One of us had to hold the scale."
The Dowager watched like a chess-master studying end-game.
"Grief is private. Duty is public. You have served both. Ask what reward you will."
Yue inhaled, feeling the jade splinter bite skin.
"Allow the northern grain to reach the famine counties first—before palace stores. And grant the imperial guards who rode with me double rations and winter leave."
A small smile touched the Dowager's lips.
"So the swan still thinks like a soldier. Granted."
She turned to leave; at the door she paused.
"Remember, child—heroes shine, but they also cast long shadows. Learn to live in them."
Then she was gone.
Garden of Verdant Frost — twilight
Zhao Shen led her along the frozen pond where lotus stalks lay brittle.
He spoke without looking at her.
"When I was twelve, my mother gave me a jade seal and told me objects carry loyalty. I believed her—until I met someone who carries loyalty in bone and breath."
He stopped, facing her.
"I cannot replace what the river took. But I can offer what remains of me—if you will have it."
From his sleeve he drew a new token: not jade, but white river-stone polished smooth, etched with a single character—辰 (Shen) beside a tiny 月 (Yue).
A name fused, not chained.
She stared, throat aching.
"I broke the first bond to save the realm. I may break this one too."
He smiled—sad, certain.
"Then we will gather the shards and build something stronger. Roots and wings, remember?"
Tears blurred the garden.
She took the stone, pressed it to her lips—warmth against winter.
"I am not done being a guard, or a gambit. The north may call again."
"And I will still be here—prince, pawn, or rooftop, as needed."
They stood in silence while lanterns flickered on across the palace—celebration lighting the night.
Great Hall — celebration
Music soared; ministers toasted; northern grain samples were displayed like captured banners.
Zhao Yuan presided, flirting with court ladies, ensuring every noble knew the peace had been bought by "a girl in borrowed armour."
Yue entered in uniform—white armour polished, swan seal at collar, new stone token hidden over heart.
Cheers erupted; musicians struck up The Swan Crosses the River.
She bore it, cheeks burning.
At the high table the Empress Dowager lifted a cup.
"To Lan Yue—who carried spring home in winter's pocket."
The hall answered: "To the swan!"
She drank, tasting nothing, feeling everything.
Rooftop — later
She escaped the noise, climbed to the eastern parapet where city lights spread like fallen stars.
Footsteps followed—Zhao Shen, cloak fluttering.
They sat side by side, legs dangling over emptiness.
Below, revellers danced around bonfires; above, the moon drifted toward full—the same moon that once glared at Ice-Lock.
He spoke first.
"Tomorrow the council will name you Imperial Envoy Extraordinary—a title, a stipend, and a target painted on silk. You may refuse."
She considered. "Titles chain less than love does. I accept—on condition I still stand guard on your roof when you need quiet."
He laughed—soft, surprised.
"Then we share the chain. Roots and wings."
She pulled the jade splinter from her shirt, showed him.
"A sliver came back. I thought it gone."
He touched it with reverence.
"Proof that what we give away returns—smaller, sharper, but ours."
They tied the splinter to the new stone token with a silk thread—past and future fused.
She tucked both inside her armour, next to heartbeat.
Epilogue of the chapter
Far to the north, Khan Orbai stood on the same moonlit wall where the bridge had fallen.
He opened his palm: a second sliver of dragon jade, caught in his glove that morning—unknown to her.
He murmured to the wind:
"Little south-star, you left a blade in my hand as well. When next we meet, may our cuts have healed enough to trade scars instead of war."
He closed his fist, eyes on the southern horizon where lights twinkled—a city, a girl, a possibility.
Snow began, erasing footprints, but not the memory of a bridge that once held two worlds in balance—and the girl who walked it until one world let go.